


Trembling

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 1: Game of Kings, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Interrupted, a wild lymond appears, flaw valleys, intruder, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2021-01-26 23:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Philippa Somerville, 13 years old and on holiday from school, thinks her father has just come back home. But as she and her mother are about to find out, it is someone else entirely playing guitar in their house...--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 4
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Trembling

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 20 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188468762754/whumptober-20)

The trembling note filled creaking corridors and damp rooms lit by the bright winter sun. The house at Flaw Valleys was accustomed to music, and the high ceilings delighted in the sound of the guitar, rolling it around the mouths of doorways and soaring bay windows.

Running down from the fields, summoned by the guttural chug of Gideon's motorbike, Philippa heard the playing from an open window and grinned. Her father had not long been back from his American tour and was daily occupied in writing up his thoughts, though his instruments had been delayed in transit. That morning he had left with the hopeful news that they had finally returned to the country, and the sound of the guitar promised his successful return.

Accompanied into the yard by a small pack of wet farm dogs, a tin whistle in her hand, Philippa anticipated hearing all the new songs Gideon had learned on his travels. She was thirteen and earnestly carefree, with a mind full of Penguin classics and the accumulated wisdom of the century's folk revival. For the past week, she had spent her half term productively in communion with the muddy pastures and bare-branched trees, making song with the hedge birds.

Philippa splashed through the churned muck in the yard and saw that her mother had also stopped to admire the music. Kate stood with her hands on her hips, a bucket of grain at her feet and a perplexed little smile on her face. "Well, child! Your father was so pleased to be reunited with his instrument that he bypassed the two of us."

"Philippa. Boots off!" She added, as her daughter continued on towards the open back door.

Kate gathered the hem of her dressing gown, its grubby pink flannel hanging below her oilskin jacket, and she waddled afterwards in her husband's over-large wellingtons. She caught Philippa at the doorway, the two of them giggling, the teenager with surprising tolerance as Kate tickled her to try and get past her first, though they were both repeatedly tripped and knocked by the bustling bodies of the dogs. Finally, two pairs of boots lay scattered across the lintel, the chickens in the yard began to help themselves to the grain Kate had abandoned, and the women scrambled inside on a tide of wagging, barking joy.

Philippa took the wooden stairs two at a time, socks flapping from her toes, hair coming loose from the two plaits she wore.

The music continued unabated, melody punctuated by tremolo and percussive tapping, an exquisite confidence in the range. It was not that Kate doubted her husband's ability to play like this, but by the time she had reached the landing she was certain that something was not right. Gideon played without irony, with - always - a perfect handle on where the song was going. This person, whoever they were, was reckless with tradition in a way that her husband was not.

"Philippa, wait," she said, unsure whether to speak loudly and alert the artist in Gideon's studio. Of course, she reflected ruefully, he had probably already been aware of their arrival. And Philippa would not wait, turning to give an impish glance back as she wheeled into the far room.

"Oh!" Kate her heard her exclaim, and adjusted her hold on her flapping dressing gown to sprint the last steps.

Philippa stood arrested in the doorway, her hands on the frame. Kate came up behind her and enveloped her daughter in her arms protectively, leaning her cheek and chin into Philippa's hair to peer into the room.

On Gideon's old kubbestol sat a creature the likes of which Kate had never encountered. It took the guise of a young man, and wore an ugly knitted jumper beneath a leather jacket dripping with zips and studs. The trousers might not have been trousers at all, but Dulux emulsion layered on skin, and absurdly, incongruously, his feet were clad in bright green frog wellies, grinning a painted red grin below their bulbous yellow eyes. Ice blonde curls shone in the studio light, and beautiful, fine-boned hands moved over the strings of Gideon's guitar, which he held high in Flamenco style.

The translucent lashes raised without haste and sparkling, surprising blue eyes greeted the women. Kate tightened her grip on Philippa and tried to pull her back from the doorway.

"Who are you?"

He smiled and it was a beautiful thing, though it chilled Kate to the core. "Oh, you haven't heard? I am Sinatra and Armstrong. Jackie Wilson has nothing on me."

"They're not guitarists! What are you doing with my father's guitar?" Philippa blurted out, and Kate tightened her grip on her.

"They're not guitarists. They're mobsters," Kate said with thin fury.


End file.
